Can't you be both?
by ej'snwsm
Summary: After a particular case gone horribly right, John is unable to stand Sherlock for a minute longer. He goes to a bar and finds exactly what he's not looking for. Which leads him somewhere he thought he didn't want to go.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own the characters in this story.

**Part One:**

As usual the case had gone exactly as planned. Planned by Sherlock that is. Not that John doesn't trust the man, it's just that he would like, for once, to actually know the plan before it's put into play. Or even while it's happening. Hell, he'd even settle for a decent explanation after it's all played out.

"You used me as bait, Sherlock!" John snatched the keys out of the slender fingers of his companion which were slowly sorting through the mess of metal and key rings

-_**when did we get so many keys? we don't really have anything to lock up. I should really go through them and-  
**_  
and shoved the right one unceremoniously into the lock. As it clicked over and he pushed the door open, Sherlock was already not apologising. In fact, he had been not apologising the whole of the taxi ride home.

"Of course I used you for bait John. Was I supposed to use someone else? The assassin's granddaughter maybe? Or maybe the third victim's next door neighbour? Yes, I'm sure they would have made great targets."

"That's not the point Sherlock!" John nearly shouted, choosing quite generously to ignore the use of the word target.

"Then what is?"

"You told me to stand lookout! How am I supposed to be your lookout and the bait?"

"Can't you be both?"

He would never get it. No matter what John said, the man would never understand what John was asking for. He would follow Sherlock to the end of the earth and beyond, all that he was asking was that he occasionally get a glimpse of the map.

By now they had moved beyond the vestibule and ascended the stairs. Pulling off his overcoat, John slid into his chair, feeling like he'd been awake for weeks. The unfortunate reality? It was only three in the afternoon. And he had been unconscious for a fair part of the day. Despite his exhaustion, he was unable to sit still for long, and soon he was on the edge of the seat, hands prep-d for intense gesticulation.

Sherlock calmly followed him, pulling off first his coat, hanging it on whatever was handy, then loosening the scarf around his neck, freeing it and sentencing it to the same fate as the coat. He sat opposite John.

-_**I am going to have to find that later, wash off the plaster dust and put it in his room, or else it'll never be seen again. I-**_

"I could have died!"

"Don't be silly John. I was keeping an eye on you. Everything went according to plan."

"So the case was a success then?"

"Undeniably."

"Great! Another case gone horribly right for the great Sherlock Homes!"

"I don't understand why you are reacting like this John. You and I are both fine, there is no longer danger or a threat of any kind. One would think you might have been able to calm down by now."

Somewhere, deep inside of himself, John knew that he was right. He had known little of what he had been getting himself into, all that time ago, but now he had received enough experience to know better, and he kept making the same decision. He knew what Sherlock was like. He should know not to expect anything else.

The rest of him, though, was considering strangling the world's only consulting detective and calling Lestrade in on a favour to help him dispose of the corpse.

"It's not about threats! It's about you and me."

"You and I, John."

"Stop-"

"No, you stop it John." Sherlock's voice was a drawl, like he was sinking back into boredom already. "This is quickly becoming a childish over-reaction. The case was a success, why does it matter _how_ the events played out?"

"Why does it matter?" John was up on his feet again, suddenly not at all tired. "Why does it-?"

The man wouldn't look at him, choosing instead to study the steeple of his fingers, pressed together in front of him.

"Are you serious? I'm supposed to be your friend Sherlock! Not your bait!"

"Can't you be both?"

John ignored him.

"Or your experiment!"

"Again, can't you be both?"

"And you're supposed to actually care about what happens to me! But did you even ask me if I was okay?"

"John-"

"And I'm going to have to write all about it now! Relive the whole thing! Like going through it once wasn't enough."

"I would be happy if you never logged on to the blog again-"

"And I don't suppose you actually liked Samantha, that was all a ploy to get me to invite her out with me too that stupid Midsummer Festival thing, so that you could stalk the buyer of that lucky seven headed dog statuette?"

"Of course I didn't-"

"I'm sick of it Sherlock! I'm not going to play the Kent to your Lear any more!"

"Who to my who?"

"Shakespeare Sherlock!" John threw his arms up in exasperation, feeling, as always, that he would have better luck trying to get through to a brick wall. Before Sherlock could say anything else, offer some new comment to infuriate him, continue not apologising for making John feel used and undervalued, John grabbed his coat. It was, after all, still early, and there were other places he could be.

When he was at the door, he turned back to face his friend. Sherlock had not moved from his seat, hadn't even moved his hands.

"All that I'm asking is that you act a little more... human. Just a little, just for me. But I suppose that's impossible."

John left, slamming the door behind him, repeating the action with every door in his way until

_**-did that door just catch? I'm going to have to check the frame and the hinges when I-**_

he was out on the street. As he was crossing the road, he didn't look back, back up to the window, where sometimes Sherlock would stand, playing his violin or just watching.

But that was okay, because Sherlock wasn't there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sherlock**

It was a few moments before he could move.

This was not unusual behaviour, often John would be unhappy with the outcome of a case, and would take his frustrations out on Sherlock. Though Sherlock was often contentedly sated during these rants, it was getting more and more difficult to ignore the violent accusations levelled at him, many of which were probably accurate. Sherlock knew John thought that the cathartic outpouring of his built up emotions would not affect him. It did though. Sherlock internally flinched every time he heard the keys click in the door when they arrived home after a case was concluded. That was where the tirade usually started. Not that he expected a physically violent response from his close -_**only**__-_ friend, but the man didn't understand that he was hurting Sherlock in a way that only he could.

John had never walked out before. Well, that wasn't true, but John hadn't walked out in a long time. Sherlock tried to shrug it off, the ex-soldier could take care of himself, but he couldn't shake the guilt. It had been his company, or lack thereof, that had driven John away from him.

Some time ago, Sherlock had returned from a case, which he had been working alone, and shut himself up in his room for two days. From the worried response that he received, he could tell that this had not been an appropriate method of assuring John that everything was okay, but he had been forced to do it. When he had seen the worry etched across the many face, he had wanted nothing more than to pull John into a hug, to reassure him, and himself, that Sherlock was okay.

There was so much worry there, in the lines of John's frown, most of it aquired after he had met Sherlock, but some Sherlock would never know the specific cause of. It was beyond even his considerable skills to read his friend.

The feeling, the need to _console_, had been so foreign that Sherlock's first instinct had been to repress it, but he quickly realised that he would not be able to do that, so he shut himself away instead.

Sherlock had since developed a better method of coping with his -_**annoying**_- emotions post-case. It involved a mental retreat that allowed John the reassurance of his physical well-being, while hiding his emotion instability and turmoil. Over the past months, Sherlock had mastered it to an almost clinical precision.

The only problem, it would seem, would be that John still thought that Sherlock was a monster.

Sherlock sighed, and stood up.

John would never forgive him if he knew the truth. So the truth must remain hidden.

Walking over to the cupboard, Sherlock pulled a familiar, chipped cup out of it -_**John's**_-, setting in on the table and turning on the kettle. As it quickly heated up, Sherlock opened the fridge, noticing and quickly forgetting that they needed more milk. Sherlock did not even think of asking Mrs. Hudson if she had any.

All possibilities of a coffee vanished, Sherlock poured hot water into the mug and carried it with him back to their chairs. Cupping it in his cold hands, not minding the burning sensation, knowing without a doubt that it would not last, Sherlock sat down in the comfortable -_**John's**_- chair.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, curling in like a child, John's last words still echoing in the room.

_**-a little more human-**_

_**-just for me-**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Two:**

He felt like he had been walking for hours, but he could probably still get home in ten minutes if Sherlock texted him. There was no purpose in the direction he chose, he just wanted to get away. Most of the case, and all of the conversation that followed it, was lost to the march of his feet. The simple beat,

_**one, two, three, four**_

conjured, unbidden, a verse to his mind, and he followed the iambic pentameter where it chose to take him.

_**-I-have-no-way,-and-therefore-want-no-eyes-I-stumb led-when-I-saw- **_

Checking his watch only showed him that he had been right. It hadn't been hours, merely three quarters, and already he had run out of anger, and verses learned by heart, to keep him walking. For the first time he took stock of his surroundings. He had no idea where he was, not that that mean an awful lot, John didn't usually pay that much attention to his surroundings. Sherlock had internally mapped out the city, in what John supposed was fantastic detail, but John had no access to that map now. Not that he would ever need to know which area had buildings that were made using a brick containing a specific type of oyster shell farmed near a small island in Pacific. Surely Sherlock could put that to use at all of the many dinner parties

_**-I will need to pick up some food on the way back. The fridge had been empty and I'm pretty sure that**_-

that he attended.

John felt a little bit of his anger return. Sherlock provided an endless stream of seemingly insignificant facts, but he couldn't remember a Shakespeare play?

He'd probably never heard of Romeo and Juliet, or read a single on of the Bard's sonnets.

Sherlock wouldn't know romance if it were a rare species of snake that lived exclusively in the Amazon rainforest.

John didn't have access to Sherlock's brain map now, so he was pretty much totally and utterly lost. He mostly only ever left the house when they needed to restock their

_**-I hope he cleaned the fingers out. They left an awful mess in the-**_

fridge, or when one of Sherlock's experiments had left them requiring some assistance from the nice men at the hardware store, or when he just needed a drink.

A drink might be nice, actually. It was nearly four in the afternoon, so drinking himself into an inability to remember Sherlock was always an option.

God, the man infuriated him, with his plans, and his brilliant mind, and his not caring about John, or about what he said.

A drink it was.

Luckily, London was a place not devoid of drinking establishments, and John soon found himself in a position to make use of one of them. It was called the Railway Pub, and John wondered at the name for a second, until he realised that there was indeed a track nearby, and trains had been screeching past him without drawing his notice. Sherlock would have noticed.

Inside it was warm and, for lack of a better descriptive word, cosy. It wasn't full, too early in the day for that sort of crowd, but there were still a few people around, sitting in booths and standing at the bar. John went to the bar, standing a little distance away from a congregation of men and woman who looked like they were all there together.

_Of course they're here together, John, can't you see the evidence? It's right there. _

Sherlock would have, of course, already figured out anything there was to know about everyone in the group. John could try, but the best he would be able to come up with would be a jumble of random unfounded assumptions, and he didn't really like to judge.

The bartender, a tall man with an odd moustache, took one look at him and pulled a beer out from behind the counter. To John, the look was too knowing, the action too familiar. Even the bartender could see, could deduce, better than John.

It was thirty minutes before he was first approached. A woman nervously set her drink, something dark and full of ice, in front of the seat next to him, and struggled into the chair beside him. She threw him a smile as he looked at her. She was attractive, but if John had to guess, which he had to, unlike his friend, he would have said that the drink she was now holding sloppily in one hand, was not her first. Or even her second.

Regardless, he smiled back at her. Her smile grew even larger, and John couldn't help noticing that the shade of her lipstick was a too bright, too unnaturally ugly, red. There was a red smudge on her glass, where the woman had pressed her lips repeatedly against it. John would have usually found the intrinsically feminine marking slightly attractive, but all that he could think about was the colour of Sherlock's lips, about how their natural hue would leave no such mark.

Hahahaha. No John, he chastised himself, you don't have thoughts like that about your male flatmate. Especially not when you're angry at him. Or ever.

The girl was still there. John hadn't said anything to her, wasn't planning too, but it seemed that she wasn't about to leave.

"Um...Hi?"

"Hi."

John waited, wondering if the girl was actually going to say anything.

"John."

"What?" The woman giggled her way through confusion.

"I'm John."

"Oh. Ha...sorry. I'm Jen. Jennifer. Jen. Um, what did you say your name was again?"

"John."

Jen giggled again.

"John and Jen."

John's eyes widened at the horrible use of alliteration. He considered not letting it past, but he didn't want to seem spiteful.

"Right. Well, ah, how are you today?"

"Tots drunk."

"I'm sorry?"

"Well I'm not."

She smiled in what John supposed was a suggestive way, and leaned forward, exposing more of her chest than John wanted to see. He was struck by the sudden urge to take the woman out and buy her a jumper. A really thick jumper. Or several really thick jumpers.

"Ah..."

The woman inched closer, taking his speechlessness for the antithesis of it's actuality.

"So... Do you want to maybe...?"

Jen's eyes were half closed when she pointed them to where she must have thought the exit was. It took John a moment to catch on.

"No." It came out blunter than John had mean, but it worked to convince both her and himself.

"Oh!" Her eyes widened, she looked him sharply once over, leaving him to wonder if she were actually as drunk as she seemed.

"Are you like...gay, or something?" The volume of her voice dropped a few decibels, and she looked around her, as if they were sharing a secret.

"N-"

"It's okay if you are. Really! Some of my friends are...gay." The same volume drop.

"No, really, I'm just-"

"So do, like, have a boyfriend? Or a husband, I mean, like, you guys can get married in some places, right?"

"Ah, yeah, equal marriage-"

"So, what's his name?"

John was confused, the woman just kept talking, moving past his discomfort.

"Your boyfriend." She clarified.

John narrowed his eyes at her nitwittedness.

"Come on. Please?" She pouted at him, fluttering her eyelashes in an absurdly comical way.

"Um..."

_-play along. Pick a name. Pick a name. Pick a-_

"Sherlock."

She sat back steadily on her own chair, looking very pleased with herself.

"That's a really nice name."

"Yeah it is." John smiled to himself. He had always loved Sherlock's name.

"How long have you known each other?"

John thought for a minute. He couldn't remember exactly how he had known Sherlock. Sometimes it seemed like too long, other times not long enough.

"A few years."

"Wow. So it's really serious then." She didn't wait for an answer. "So, John, with a smoking hot boyfriend like yours, what are you doing out here with lil' old me?"

"I didn't say he was smoking hot." Not that he _wouldn't _say he was amazingly attractive, but then he _was_ just sticking to character.

"You didn't have to sweetie. I can tell." She winked at him.

John blushed.

"So, why are you here?"

John thought for a moment. Why was he here again, not at home with his super hot (annoying, emotionally repressed...yeah, okay, kinda stunning with those cheekbones) 'boyfriend'?

"We had a fight."

Jen looked genuinely shocked and concerned, overly so, as if she had a personal investment in the success of his imaginary relationship.

"It was serious?"

"Yeah. I said some pretty bad stuff to him, things that he didn't really deserve. He just sat there and took it."

"Damn. So, do you think you can work it out?" There was what really appeared to be genuine worry in her brow.

John hesitated for a moment. He hadn't thought about it that way. He had walked out on Sherlock, actually done it. Could he go back? Could he _not_ go back?

The man would never change, John knew that. He was who he was, married to his work, putting it above almost everything else. John had thought that the few scraps of friendship that Sherlock threw him could be enough, but now he was starting to wonder, as those scraps came less and less. John felt like Sherlock was withdrawing from him, emotionally. Perhaps he wanted a separation, a break from John.

"Because, if you need someone to talk to, or...you know...I told you, some of my friends are gay."

She gestured at the big group.

That comment brought John back from his thoughts. He shook his head furiously, choking on his drink. He was only just coming to terms with his hypothetical relationship with Sherlock, he wasn't ready to...well...that.

"No." John said when he had finished coughing.

"It's okay. I get it." She smiled knowingly, and John cocked his eyebrow, wondering exactly what it was she was getting at.

She smiled at the confused look on his face, as if his problem was the most obvious thing since a spray on tan.

"You love him."

"What?!" John momentarily forgot that they were having a hypothetical conversation (not that she knew that), and they they were not, after all, talking about his semi-reclusive live-in sociopath.

"Well, it's obvious," Jen said, leaning back and crossing her arms, casually waving around her glass like she was talking about nothing more interesting that the weather. "Otherwise you would have left him by now."

John frowned. It was true, he hadn't left Sherlock yet. He had plenty of opportunities. Sure there was nowhere he could run without Sherlock being able to find him, but he was pretty sure that he wasn't worth that much time.

So he could do it, just walk out.

Why hadn't he?

When he got this angry with the man?

When Sherlock didn't seem to care all that much if John came or went?

What was he still doing at 221 Baker street?


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Three:**

Jen didn't hang around him at the bar for much longer. They did talk a bit, John growing increasingly more comfortable referring to Sherlock as his boyfriend, and Jen was apparently either sober or drunk enough to give him some good advice. That advice was still ringing in his ear when one of her friends came over to collect her.

Apparently her group was moving on, finding some other place to haunt.

She asked him if he would like to come with them, but he declined.

He had figured something out.

It wasn't a really big thing, but he needed to think it over.

It wasn't even something he'd figured out. Rather he had figured out that he had already figured it out. Like it had always been there, and he'd always been reaching for it, unable to push everything else out of the way to wrap his fingers around it, but now there is was. All it took was a few words from a strange girl in a random bar.

He would not leave Sherlock. Not on this night, nor on any other.

That was the thing.

Why not?

That was the question.

John felt that there was something else there, stuck behind even more layers that he had been somewhat reluctant to look past. But now there was no Jen to supply him with a mass of small epiphanies. And he didn't know if he had the ability to get there himself.

So, John, stick to the basics.

Why not?

He didn't want to leave Sherlock. God, even the thought of leaving felt like a betrayal. Despite everything, he owed Sherlock so much, he didn't know where he would be without the younger man.

He would willingly sacrifice his life for him, even if the instinct was reciprocated. He would happily, well unhappily, continue to play the bait in Sherlock's schemes. He just hoped that Sherlock would always want him to. If John was being honest with himself, and by this time he had consumed enough alcohol to make that a distinct possibility, He didn't want Sherlock to change. For all his ranting and raving about the man, John didn't know what he would do if anything happened to him, changed him in any way.

Sherlock had begun to embody an epitome, in John's mind. A wacky, possibly undeserved title, given the propensity of the man to fill their fridge with heads and their walls with bullets, and John was left feeling increasingly...disposable.

Sherlock could easily find another flatmate. Another blogger, they really were becoming a dime a dozen in today's modern world. Another person to use a bait.

But John would never meet another like Sherlock. He was an amazingly unique individual, who, to John, embodied a dichotomy between order and chaos, between human and perfection.

John didn't want to loose him.

Though lost in thought John had a vague notion that it was getting darker outside. He absent-mindedly checked his watch. It read seventeen past six.

He had reconciled himself to his fate by six thirty. He was going to go home, act like nothing had ever happened. Like nothing had changed. Perhaps nothing would change.

And he would never know why.

There was no possibility of Sherlock bringing up their fight (well, John's fight), since Sherlock didn't do emotional confrontations. Or emotion.

It really did make it harder for John to swallow the guilt he still felt about the insults he hurled at the man, who hadn't so much as batted an eyelid in reaction. Still being honest, John knew that his true motivation was to try to get through to Sherlock on an emotional level. He felt as though they had broken down so many barriers since he had first met the man, but there was one last obstacle that it was impossible to transcend.

He looked down at his glass. It was only his second, so much for drinking his way into oblivion, and it was still half full. Yet he could feel the affect of the alcohol on the edges of his mind and knew that he was being influenced by it. His watch still glared at him. 6:31. he wondered if he should call it a night, and head home.

It took him five more minutes to assure himself that all the answers where not contained in the last few dregs. He places the glass back to the bar and leaned back, intent on freeing himself from the chair, succeeding in getting his coat caught on the back of the chair and nearly taking it down with him.

"Whoa... steady there. Where do you think you're going?" John was most definitely not unstable on his feet, now that he was actually on them, but he noticed that there was no rebuff in the female voice that accosted him. He turned. For the second time in one night, a fairly attractive female was smiling at him.

"Um...I was ah... planning on leaving?" he trailed of on the last word, making it seem like more of a question than the statement he had intended.

"What, so early?" She took a step forward, effectively blocking his chance for an easy exit. John wondered if it would be easier to play the gay card again.

"Look, I-"

"No need to panic, just being friendly." Another step.

"No, really-"

"Let me buy you a drink?"

"Actually, sweetheart, he's with me."

She turned, looking the speaker once over before turning back to John, who gave her a weary smile.

"Suit yourself."

"Lestrade. Ah, thanks for that."

"No problem." John had been too preoccupied to see Greg come in, but he was grateful now for the intervention.

"What about you let me buy you a drink."

"No, I think you should let me do that, after what you just did for me."

Greg shrugged, leaning forward against the bar while John once again took his seat.

They sat in a companionable silence until the barkeep had poured their drinks, John's third, and set them out before them.

"So, what brings you here?"

Greg took a drink before he answered.

"You, actually."

"Me?"

"Yes. It seems you upset a few important people with your disappearing act."

John didn't belong to important people, but Lestrade's evasion of any actual made it clear that either he did not want to dob, or that he truly didn't know exactly what was going on. John knew the feeling.

He settled for what he hoped would be an easier question.

"How did you know where I was. Even I don't really know."

Lestrade turned to him, looking just as lost as John.

"Umbrella guy?"

John suddenly understood. He didn't belong to important people, but Sherlock did. Mycroft.

"Some guys picked me up off the street, took me to some warehouse where Umbrella guy gave me a whole lot of information, I don't think I understood half of it, and then they drove me here and kicked me out."

John so knew the feeling.

"That's Mycroft. Wait a minute, surely you know better than to get into strange cars."

"They said you were in danger." John could see the fierce loyalty in his friend's eyes, and was more glad than ever to be on Lestrade's side.

"Well, you saved me from the only danger when you came in."

"Well, I have to admit, I don't know what I was expecting, but it was a little more dire than an overly flirty female and a few pints."

John chuckled. Mycroft was always one for exaggeration.

"So, why are you here John?"

"I just couldn't stay in the apartment for a minute longer, You know how he gets. All moody and reclusive."

"Not really, but then, I don't live with him. And thank god for that."

"Well, I know. It's just that he comes up with these completely brilliant plans which more often than not involve using me as some form of bait, but he never tells me, and then I just get pretty angry and..."

He trailed off. Now, in retrospect, it all seemed so ridiculously childish, just like Sherlock had said. He frowned back into his glass.

"He does, you know."

"Hmm?" John looked up.

"He cares about you."

"I know, but not-" He broke off again.

"Not what?" Greg prompted.

John continued frowning, trying once more to pull that thought in.

"Not...? Not enough? Not in the way that you care for him?" Greg's words were careful but patient.

That was it.

That thing that he had begun reaching for so long ago and was now in his grasp.

Exactly how much he cared about Sherlock. And it wasn't just in a his-lips-are-so-beautiful-wouldn't-leave-a-mark-an d-my-hypothetical-boyfriend-is-the-hottest-thing-o n-two-legs-sort-of-way. Sure it was all that, in John's epiphany addled alcohol affected state he was allowed to admit that he was very much attracted to his flatmate, but it was more too.

He wanted to see the man happy, truly happy. He wanted the man to experience love and life, and have everything that he could possibly want. He wanted to feel the pulse quicken beneath his fingers, see Sherlock's sharp, knowing eyes glazed over, blind, with lust.

Okay, stop for a moment. There are some things that a good room-mate should not do, and undressing their co-inhabitant with their eyes is one of them. Especially when that co-inhabitant is the asexual Sherlock Holmes. He's pretty sure that any romantic gesture would be completely lost. Sherlock would be able to pick up the physiological signs of an emotional response, but he would be unable to read the intention behind them.

John blanched. Sure this idea was not completely foreign to him, he had flirted with it, trying to grasp it's significance, always retreating when he got too close, but now it seemed like there was no going back.

He was in love with Sherlock, and he was committed to that realisation. No denying it now. Suddenly everything seemed to make sense. His earlier conversation with Jen took on a completely different hue.

Sherlock would know. Sherlock would be able to read the signs, he would know that John was- Oh God- Now he's done it, did he think he had broken things beyond repair before? Because this was worse.

Sherlock would ignore it at first. Perhaps he would suggest that John give himself a once over, or visit another doctor, to make such that he was not falling ill. But, when you've ruled out the impossible, what remains, however improbable, must he the truth. And Sherlock was great at finding the truth. John damned himself and his new realisation. Things would get awkward, Sherlock would retreat now more than ever. Dammit.

John was well aware that he was panicking. It wasn't long before Greg became aware of it too.

"John. Look, was it something that I said?" Lestrade took a moment to replay the last few minutes in his head.

"Oh God, John. Look I'm sorry if I...I didn't mean it. You know me, I'm so...well..."

"No." Lestrade's confused apology served to calm John a little. He wasn't that freaked. Lestrade sent him look that spoke confusion to new bounds.

"What you said, it's true. He doesn't care about me in the same way."

"I know you've always been a little defensive about it. I mean, you denied it to the point where even I..What?" Lestrade stopped at the look on John's face.

"How long have you known? That I...care for Sherlock?" John clarified.

"Ah... let me think. It must have been that case, you know, the only with the pink and everything?"

"Greg, that was my first case."

"Oh. Well then I guess I've always known. Why?"

"Because I just figured it out five minutes ago. "

"Oh...um, right then. Should have let you know sooner?"

"Maybe."

They sat in silence for a while. Then Greg started beeping. John looked at the man as he scrambled to get at his pockets. He took the call, moving just far enough away that he was mostly out of earshot. When he came back, John was still thinking about everything that had just been said. It surprised him how little the questions mattered any more. There was suddenly a simple answer to all of them.

Why did he stay? Because he loved Sherlock.

Why did he fight with him? Because Sherlock didn't feel the same way.

What was he going to do about it? Absolutely nothing. There was nothing that he could do. He was already resigned to his fate, there was nothing that he could do to change it, so he did what he had to. He accepted it.

"I've got to go. There's a situation at the Yard. No, we don't need him." John had already pulled out his phone and opened a message to Sherlock. He hesitated for a moment.

"I know how to do my job." John closed his phone.

"Well, I'll come with you." He went to stand, but Greg pushed him back.

"No."

John shot him a questioning look. Lestrade looked weary.

"I got a text message. Anonymous." Lestrade showed John the screen of his phone. There was a single message, no contacts or initials.

_You had better not let him leave. It's my turn. _

"I assume they meant you. I think it might be umbrella guy." John nodded, feeling distinctively like he was part of a conspiracy that he knew nothing about. Lestrade rushed out, leaving money on the bar. As soon as he was out the door, John finished his drink. He no longer found the taste enjoyable.

He considered walking out, but he assumed that there would be some force in place to stop him from leaving. These people were connected.

All that he could do was wait.

It only took twenty minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Four:**

When his final visitor finally came in and sat down, it was not what he had been expecting. Not that he was expecting much, he had learnt early not to make assumptions too early.

Greg's supposition had been wrong. The text had not been from Mycroft, nor from any of his secretaries, nor their secretaries. John took a moment to wonder exactly how Irene Adler had gotten Lestrade's personal number.

"Hello John."

"Ms. Adler."

"Irene, please."

"Really?" John shot her a look that questioned her sanity.

"Suit yourself."

They sat in silence. She was, unlike quite a percentage of the times John had actually met with her, fully dressed, in a pair of tight pants and a thin red cardigan.

This was not a conversation that John wanted to start. Not that he had any idea why she was here, or what she wanted to talk about, but it was almost certainly going to involve Sherlock, so he didn't really want a part of it. Not with her.

Perhaps he was Kent to Sherlock's Lear, but whenever Irene was around, he felt more like Rosaline to his Romeo.

How was he just beginning to understand the nature of his feelings towards Sherlock.

"Look, I'm going to keep this short." John snorted. That was just like the Woman. Love 'em fast and keep 'em guessing.

"If you hurt him, I will make sure they never find the body. The real body."

John laughed.

"How could I hurt Sherlock?" It was far beyond his power to even dint the shields that he man installed and kept in impeccable condition.

It was Adler's turn to laugh.

"Wow, you've really got it bad." John swapped his frown for a scowl. It was all that he could do in an attempt to refute the claim.

"Don't look like that. We've all been there."

There was real hurt there, and John was struck by a sudden feeling of kinship to the woman who was, beyond a doubt, completely and utterly S_herlocked_. He considered offering her a drink, so that they might share the silence in something a little more comfortable, but then he would risk turning this into a moment, and he didn't want to share any of those with Irene.

"Like I said, I'm going to keep this brief, and hopefully as painless as possible." John snorted again, but Irene kept going. "I am going to tell you something."

John gestured for her to continue, trying to hide his actually curiosity in the exaggeration of his movements.

"This is not going to be easy for you."

She ignored John's mumbled "like you care", raising an eyebrow as a warning for him to remain silent. Sje began to speak, but seemed to change her mind, considering for only a minute before, "Mend your speech a little, lest it may mar your fortunes."

Definitely not what John had expected.

"Did you just quote Shakespeare at me?"

"King Lear. You are familiar with it."

John nodded, to confused to do anything else.

"It's good advice, John."

"Mend my speech? What do you mean?"

"Contrary to the commonly held idea, he does have feelings. And, like everyone else with feelings, he runs the risk of getting them hurt, any time he lets anyone close."

"I still don't understand-"

"Shall I spell it out for you John?" Irene was no longer looking at him, she had pulled out her mobile and was scrolling through something on the small screen. John didn't answer, and Irene didn't continue until she had apparently found what she had been looking for, placing her phone, screen still glowing, face up on the bar and turning back to John.

"Sherlock. Has. Feelings. For. You." Her voice was reminiscent of a child's nursery rhyme, each word punctuated with a pause, and John suddenly wanted to accuse her of recounting a fantasy. He stopped himself though, willing himself not to let emotions into his face, or his voice.

His own emotions seemed to be the only card he had left, even though it seemed like everyone else on the table had been counting cards and knew exactly what he was holding.

She waited a moment, as if expecting him to say something.

"Please don't blow up at me again. I'm not talking about you, I don't care what you try to tell yourself. I'm talking about him. He's holding his emotions in so close, every closer than usual. Why do you think that is?"

John didn't know what to say. He was going to argue, state categorically that there was no way Sherlock would be interested in him, but an image suddenly flooded his mind.

A memory from only hours, god it had really just been hours, before Sherlock sitting on in his chair, not looking at John, studying the space beyond his fingertips.

"_And I don't suppose you actually liked Samantha, that was all a ploy to get me to invite her out with me too that stupid Midsummer Festival thing, so that you could stalk the buyer of that lucky seven headed dog statuette?"_

"_Of course I didn't-"_

"_I'm sick of it Sherlock!"_

There had been no flicker of hurt on his face, no emotional response to suggest that he was actually listening to John, but something had been there in his words.

John's mind quickly did an inventory of all the times he had tried to introduce Sherlock to his girlfriends. There had been disaster, after disaster, Sherlock had seemingly not approved of any of them. The meeting had been followed by periods of sulking Sherlock, and a breakup was always followed by Sherlock's version of joy. John hadn't picked up on it before, Sherlock's mood fluctuated so often and so readily, case, no case, boring, interesting, but now he could see a pattern.

There was still a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that this pattern was just him seeing what he wanted to see, persuaded by this horribly beautiful and emotionally invested woman sitting before him. His mind was slightly more open to the possibility.

"I'm not-"

"What? Not sure? Not gay? Still?" Irene shrugged, taking up her phone again.

"If he had feeling's for anyone, it's not me, it's..."

"Who? Me? No, John, believe me, if that were true, I wouldn't be here, and Sherlock wouldn't be alone."

John must have still looked sceptical, because Irene sighed, considering a moment before she gestured for John to move closer.

"I didn't want to do this, but I knew that you would need some persuading, so I took the precaution of saving it anyway."

"Saving what?" Irene silenced him with a glare, directing his attention to the screen of her phone.

For the second time that evening, John was reading text messages. The screen read:

_Don't you even want to try? We could hold hands?_

_You're not my type. And before you ask, there's no way you could be my type._

_John?_

_John._

John stared at the final two messages. One sent one received. One question, one answer. Both his name.

Irene stood up, leaving John leaning into thin air, and for the second time that night he nearly fell out of his chair.

"I've got to go. It was nice talking to you John. We should do it again sometime." She looked up from her phone to give him a quick smile. She was halfway to the door when she turned around.

"You can go now. I think that there is one more person you ought to talk to, but he's not going to be coming here." She stopped John before he had a chance to speak.

"I gave you the information, it's your choice what you do with it. Remember, though, if you hurt him..."

John's flinch at the though of Sherlock in pain seemed to be all the assurance she needed. Still on her phone, she left the bar.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part Five:**

It was by all standards still early. By his watch, John was told that it had just past eight, and that the nights drinking hours were only just beginning.

He was no longer interested in taking part in them. He felt nervous, and considered just one more drink, to clear his head or steel his nerves, or just to get his hands to stop trembling, but there was somewhere he needed to be.

Even if Irene had been lying or wrong, if the message had been faked or misinterpreted, he still had to apologise. Some of the things he had said...he was too ashamed to revisit.

He made his way home much in the same way he had gone out. It turned out that he knew more of the city than he had originally given himself credit for, because he barely needed a thought as he walked back through the streets. He had planned on being out for much longer, planned to make a right night of it, but now he could feel that exhaustion creeping back. It had been a difficult day to say the least.

There was no light on at 221b Baker street, but the curtains were not drawn, so John guessed that Sherlock had just forgotten to turn them on. John felt a sudden return of the anxiety he had walked out of himself on the way home, compounded by the intensified guilt. He hesitated at the door. He couldn't knock, chances were Sherlock was somewhere in his mind palace and wouldn't hear him, so he pulled out his keys and turned them in the lock.

As he was ascending the stairs, he almost yielded to his cowardliness, considered knocking on Mrs Hudson's door to stall the inevitable, but there was only one person he really wanted to see.

The door was closed, but not locked. John's mind tried to recapture the room as it had been when he slammed the door, without the red tinge of anger, and wondered if anything had changed. Would he find Sherlock, still stiff in his chair, hands pressed together, sea blue eyes staring into nothing, seeing nothing of the world that played out before them, more interested in what lied behind?

It was dark. John briefly considered just leaving the lights off and going upstairs. He could still pretend that nothing had happened. Because the reality was that nothing had happened.

He flicked the lights on. Over taken by a sudden confusion, John looked at Sherlock's chair. He had been preparing himself to meet the sight of his friend there, but the familiar shape was missing.

John looked around, unable to locate Sherlock in the dim light.

Perhaps he had gone upstairs, to bed. Sherlock didn't usually limit himself by insisting his sleeping quarters be room, often curling up on any nearby surface that seemed comfortable enough not to leave him with bruises in the morning, but perhaps he had decided this time that he would follow convention.

John was almost on the stairs, prepared to leave it until tomorrow, when he heard the noise. It wasn't very loud, just a mumbled voice, but John had been around Sherlock for long enough to know that even the smallest of things could be important.

He turned, and his eyes fell upon Sherlock, curled up under a blanket. It took John a moment to figure out why he hadn't seen him there before. Then he realised that Sherlock was asleep in his chair. He hadn't thought to look at the odd shape in too much detail when he had first scanned the room. Sherlock didn't usually sit in his chair. Then he saw the mug, sitting on one of the coffee tables, and he understood a little better.

He walked over to Sherlock. It always amazed him how the tall man was able to tuck himself away into such a small mass, but here, again, was proof of the man's abilities. The position didn't look comfortable, John was sure that were he forced to spend any time in it himself he would wake with stiff limbs, but the look on Sherlock's face was mostly content. If it held any emotion, it was in the tiny worry lines of his brow.

The room was cold, and the thin blanket that Sherlock had curled himself into would not afford him much warmth. John turned away, scanning the room for anything warmer

_**-I'm never going to be able to make heads or tails of this mess. I should really ask Sherlock to clean up a little, but-**_

but nothing jumped out at him. His eyes fell upon Sherlock's coat, carelessly thrown upon a unstable looking pile of books. Well, if he could get nothing better, the coat would have to do. He didn't even consider going into his or Sherlock's rooms for a blanket off either bed, but similarly the thought of waking Sherlock did not cross his mind.

All of the anger John had felt earlier in the evening had dissolved into nothing, replaced by emotions that John had refused to entertain before tonight. They had always been there, suppressed to the point where even John hadn't seen them, but now he saw no point in denying it. It seemed that he was actually the last to know. Even random strangers could tell. John was surprised that he wasn't more embarrassed about the way things turned out, having been subjected to a mass conspiracy by some of the smartest and most powerful people that he knew, all for the purpose of revealing, once and for all, the true nature of his feelings towards his friend.

John was aware that it was strange to watch someone sleep, if roles had been reversed, be would have called Sherlock a creep, amongst other things, but John was struck by a feeling so like happiness, so far away from the harsh emotions he had been cultivating over the last few months, the anger, the fear, the doubt, that he didn't want to look away from Sherlock's sleeping figure.

The man's eye lids fluttered slightly under John's gaze, as though he were thinking at a speed, even in sleep, beyond what John could imagine. He wondered if Sherlock had dreams, being placed into situations that were vivid and fantastical and that he had absolutely no control over. He wondered if Sherlock had nightmares.

John lowered his eyes to Sherlock's lips (just briefly, because watching someone's eyes while they're asleep is very different to checking out their lips and perhaps daydreaming a little) just long enough to confirm that their colour was the natural hue had distracted his thoughts in the bar.

John sat for a few minutes just watching. He was shocked, not for the first time, to realise that Sherlock was beautiful. Everything about him, every important detail, was what made him who he was, and John would never ask for any of it to change.

But he had. He had asked Sherlock to change. To change for him.

The guilt returned with a force that made John light-headed.

To steady himself he unconsciously reached out to Sherlock, uncurling his long fingers from where they were tightly gripping the blanket and threading them through his own. Sherlock's fingers curled in around his, tightening and holding him fast. His hands were cold and soft, and John couldn't stop the doubting though that it was just Sherlock's finger's seeking out the warmth from his own. The movement brought him comfort anyway, and he was soon steadied by the connection. It did nothing to stop the guilt, but it allowed him to focus on the real, the here and now, and not to capitulate to the panic attack that could be building.

John's legs began to ache, he had been walking for a long time, and although he no longer limped, he could feel the faint echo of the sensation sometimes. Squatting in front of Sherlock was not helping. John went to stand, to leave Sherlock's sleeping form. There was no need to wake him, nothing to be said that could not be said tomorrow, and he truly was very tired.

As he pulled away, though, the hand entwined with his grasped even tighter, pulling John closer and almost causing him to fall.

John sighed, preparing himself to pry the long dexterous fingers away from his own, or, if he could not (for Sherlock had quite a grasp), curling up on the floor next to him, possibly stealing some of the blanket.

"John." The word was spoken so clearly that, for a moment, John was sure that Sherlock had woken up. When he examined him, however, he found that he was still asleep. The word brought with it a bought of activity, and in his sleep Sherlock began to roll onto his side in the limited area of the chair, but John's mind was still caught up in the echoes of his name.

Perhaps Sherlock did dream. And talk in his sleep. Perhaps at this moment Sherlock was dreaming of him. There was no clue in the tone of his voice, it could be a good dream, could be horrible. But John was there with him. John felt ridiculous and would probably never admit it, but the thought made him feel even more happy. Then Sherlock spoke again.

"John." The word was repeated as clearly as the first, and Sherlock had stopped moving, maybe falling back into an easier pattern of sleep.

"John, I'm glad you're back, but why are you holding my hand?"

This time, it seemed, his name had not been spoken from the depths of a dream, but from a fully conscious, slightly weary looking Sherlock. John's heart skipped a beat or two, caught up by a sudden fear that he was wrong, Adler was wrong, this was all so wrong...

John found himself, for a fear of looking anywhere else, focusing on their hands, still clasped together. He found a tiny bit of hope lurking in the thought that Sherlock hadn't thrown his hand way, instead making his grip impossibly harder.

"John, you are still holding my hand, and you're calm appears to be deteriorating."

"Please, Sherlock. Just for a moment, will you let me do both?"

Sherlock remained silent, watching John with a cautious eye, as if still afraid that he would blow up, or his anger from earlier would return. He probably thinks I'm drunk, John thought. Slowly Sherlock began to drag his thumb in slow comforting circles around John's skin.

This is it, this is it, this is it. Just do it John. You faced death in the war, physical injury almost everyday with Sherlock, and you faced down threats from the Woman. This shouldn't be any harder than all of that.

But it was. It was horrible, and terrifying, and worse than almost anything that John had faced. He took a deep breath, succeeding in stopping the flow of negative thoughts but doing nothing to banish the ones that had already slipped thought.

He just had to do this. On the count of three.

_One, two-_

"Sherlock, we need to talk."


	7. Chapter 7

**Sherlock:**

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

Sherlock's heart sank at the words. He didn't want to talk with John, not now. He just wanted to keep holding the man's hand, feeling the calloused skin under his own, just a few degrees rougher that Sherlock had deduced. He was content.

Sherlock wasn't happy. It was a feeling that he was used to. A lack of happiness was not something that he usually worried about. He was challenged, interested, working, and he was content. But that wasn't the same as happiness. He had forgone happiness a long time ago, thinking that it was sloppy and messy and somewhat pointless. As long as he was content, as long as he wasn't bored, he was as close to happy as he needed to be.

But never had happiness been so close and been denied to him. Never had he wanted to reach out and grab that messy emotion that so often dragged unhappiness with it. Because John made him happy, sheer proximity to the man, but also made him afraid. He was afraid that if John knew the true nature of his emotions, the little blip that his heart made every time he looked at the man, John would leave. John put up with a lot living with Sherlock, but too much was too much and every fit of heterosexuality proved to Sherlock that this would be too much.

And now John was here, holding Sherlock's hand, asking to talk.

Those few words struck a fear into Sherlock the likes of which he had never experienced.

Sherlock could smell Irene's perfume on the man, not strongly, she had not touched him, just made sure to get close enough that Sherlock would know it had been her. And it was with that in mind, the Woman's unpredictability and the unfounded trust he had bestowed upon her, that Sherlock was for the first time overcome by a worry that rivalled his curiosity.

John was looking at him expectantly, like he was asking permission to ruin Sherlock's carefully constructed world.

Instead of allowing him, Sherlock took the offensive.

"What do you need to talk about John? Is it about my complete and utter lack of concern, or social etiquette? Perhaps you want to accuse me of being inhuman once more. Or maybe this is about some other complication you've come up with. Well, John, I don't really feel like talking. In fact, if you could just go aw-"

John had been sitting in silence, not responding to the accusations levelled at him. He probably thought that he deserved it. That alone was almost enough to make Sherlock stop his rant, but the lips suddenly pressed against his was what truly brought his rant to a stand still.

For the first time in a long while, Sherlock's mind raced to catch up with what was happening. John's lips were soft and gentle on his, the light pressure hesitant but confident. By the time Sherlock's mind started working at normal speed, however, John was pulling away, frown on his face and worry building in his eyes once more.

They could talk.

Talking could be good.

There were ways to sort this thing out, practical ways to deal with the-

Sherlock leaned in, closing the short distance himself this time. Their first kiss, if John's one sided attempt to shut him up could be called a kiss, had broken down a few of his walls, inviting in something baring a striking resemblance to hope.

Now he was struck by the idea that that first kiss had been their last, that John had been put off by his lack of reaction. Did John think that he didn't want this? Perhaps, if he gave John time to think, he would come to realise that he didn't want this after all. Then he would either leave, or expect everything to go back to the strange semblance of normal that they had had before.

This was everything that John himself had denied, that Sherlock had secretly coveted since the first time he truly saw the man. He couldn't lose it, refused to let the moment end. So there was only one course of action he could take.

Sherlock's kiss was just as hesitant as John's had been, an exchange, not a demand. His limited experience got him this far, but he was lost as to what came next. John reacted faster than he had, pushing back against Sherlock's lips, deepening the kiss slightly. Sherlock's mind slowed again, unable to analyse all of the details being presented to him, the heat of John's mouth, the rough feel of his hand as he raised it to touch Sherlock's face, the wet slide of a tongue against the seam of his lips.

Sherlock must have looked panicked, trying to sort through all of the new information, because John suddenly broke off the kiss. Ignoring Sherlock's tiny noise of complaint, breaking from him unconsciously, he rested their foreheads together and waited for Sherlock's mind to catch up, for his breathing to slow.

He hadn't been like this since childhood, before he had learnt to accurately categorise large amount of information quickly. He had been prone, in childhood, to bouts of confusion that would on occasion last for hours.

Soon he was calm. He had taken time to internally clear space in his head, deleting some useless catalogue of comparatively irrelevant information. In it's place there was now a colour, a feeling, an indescribable mess that Sherlock didn't want to unravel. It had been difficult enough trying to catalogue the physical, tangible aspect to the kiss, the rest was beyond his ability.

Sherlock turned his gaze outward to find nothing. Where he had expected to see John, still kneeling before him, he saw empty space. He felt worry flood through his veins. Had he done something wrong and offended John? Had some unknown assailant entered the room whilst he had been incapacitated by the influx of information, and stolen his John away?

He scanned the rest of the room, looking for signs of a struggle, or for the man himself, any hint as to what had happened.

The curtains were now drawn, shutting out most of the light from nearby street lights and nearly all of the noises from the road below. Sherlock himself was now wrapped in a warmer blanket, noticing the thick, heavy material for the first time.

The room was devoid of signs of a struggle, but the mess was so complete that Sherlock could not be sure.

He quickly filed his thoughts away under paranoia. John could take care of himself, of that Sherlock had absolute certainty.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sherlock:**

It was only fourteen hours before Sherlock called Lestrade. If it hadn't been for the kiss, it probably would have been three days.

After he realised that John had left, Sherlock had retreated back into his mind, replaying details, moments, colours, everything. When he had again surfaced, hours had passed and it was already morning. He didn't feel tired, not long after beginning to study his memories they had all blurred slightly and Sherlock knew that he was asleep. His exploration had continued, it seemed that even unconsciously his mind was occupied with that first encounter with something wholly beyond itself, yet integrally part of Sherlock.

When he did wake the room was exactly how it had been when he had last seen it, only now it was morning sunlight through the windows instead of the artificial glow of a street lamp. Sherlock rose, feeling his limbs stretch out, combating the lasting affect of the long bout of stillness. A joint somewhere cracked, but Sherlock was too preoccupied to identify which it was. The floor was cold on his bare feet, sending a shiver up his spine, ending at the base of his hair. He absent mindedly walked into the kitchen, knocking things on to the floor as he went, mind occupied with a particularly vivid memory. He opened the fridge, hoping for the milk that had been absent the day before.

He placed in on the counter before he realised what he was doing.

Milk.

John had gone out last night, perhaps even this morning, and returned to restock their spoiled fridge. John never did seem happy that Sherlock was fine with keeping their food in between various body parts and live bacteria cultures.

Sherlock made coffee.

His minds was buzzing in anticipation, equal parts hoping for John's return and for a new case. The short but new experience last night seemed to have flicked on a light in his head. Suddenly there seemed to be nothing but possibility. New chances to be challenged, new problems to be solved, and all of them holding secrets to which only Sherlock would find the answers.

And then there were other possibilities. Things he had never allowed himself to consider before.

Sherlock had experienced impatience before, but not for two contradictory events. How did people do it? Put one thing on hold to pursue the other? It was an unattractive concept. Without his work, Sherlock was nothing.

No, that's not quite true. Sherlock had been nothing. A long time ago, when he first met John, he had told the doctor that he was married to his work. It had been Sherlock's way of establishing himself as a kindred spirit. Doctors were notoriously loyal to the operating room, but the man hadn't understood Sherlock's attempt.

It also hadn't necessarily been true. Sherlock wasn't married to his work. That implied two separate entities. Sherlock was his work. He was the hunt, the challenge, the rush.

Now that too was a lie. Sherlock had become more. Sherlock had become human, for John, just as he asked. It hadn't been a conscious decision, but Sherlock hadn't fought it either. The minute he felt the gravitational pull, the _magnetism_ that the man seemed to exude, he gave in.

Sherlock knew a fight when he saw it, saw the good ones and the bad.

John was not a fight.

Sherlock couldn't give John up, but his work was his drug. There was no way he could survive without either.

John didn't return.

Author's note:

Right, so I think that now may be a good time to clarify some things. If you disagree, feel free to ignore my ramblings.

And thank you to everyone who has written a review, I live on your input.

Firstly, Sherlock's chapters don't have numbers because Sherlock doesn't care about the linearisation of events in a narrative. Because that is boring. And irrelevant.

Secondly, I'm not quite sure about this story. Somewhere it took on a life of it's own, and it hasn't bothered to tell me where it's going.

Aside from that, please continue, or begin, to enjoy my story.


	9. Chapter 9

**Part six:**

It was the sharp, biting pain radiating up his arms that told John not to open his eyes. He had played this role enough to know that he has being restrained and that he needed time to adjust that would be foregone the minute his captors realised his consciousness.

His arms were forced at odd angles around his back, their twisted joints adding a dull ache to the sharper pain from the wrist cuffs. His head hurt, like he had been hit hard with a brick wall, but there was a distinctive blankness in his mind, a blindness around the edges of his consciousness. John fought to hold onto lucid thought. They had drugged him with something. What?

When John came around for a second time, it was with a jolt of pain, sending his body into a reflexive arch, straightening his back as much as the confines of the chair would allow. He could no longer hide the fact that he was awake, so he opened his eyes and studied his surroundings.

The first thing that he saw, or rather felt, was the pull of a tube in his arm. They had released his arms from their position behind him and they were now tied to the arms of the chair. It seemed that they were feeding him intravenously. Probably drugging him too. He disregarded his discomfort, there was nothing he could do about that now.  
Most of his mental faculties had returned, the throbbing in his head faded, but no one came to check on him. He couldn't see much, just the darkness that seemed to draw closer then retreat. The floor was dirty, so were the walls, and as far as John could see there was only one door, on the wall facing him. In the gloom he could only make out the outline of it, a series of straight dark lines against a darker background. The little light came in through a window directly above him. John couldn't strain his neck back that far without feeling dizzy, but he knew that it was there from the small play of light and shadow on the floor. It was stark, bare, and horrifying. All it needed was a drain on the floor and the torture chamber would be complete. And for all John knew there was one.

After he had woken the third time, he was rocking a confused panic. Where were they? What were they going to do with him? Where was he? How was he going to get out, or even understand his position, if no one came to talk to him? He'd been in similar situations, and seen enough spy films, to know that the only chance he had were if someone made a mistake and gave him an opportunity. It seemed that these people weren't taking any chances. No one came into the room, at least not while he was concious. No demands were made, no long monologues or speeches. No threats. Nothing.

John thought until he ran out of questions, knowing that there was, in reality, no way to collect answers.

The only thing he didn't ask himself was why. There never needed to be a why when one was Sherlock's companion. The why was an integral part of the job description.

The fourth time he woke it was with a felling of worthlessness. In a fit of nostalgic panic, an attempt to escape the weak vulnerability that had suddenly come upon him, John got angry. It was something that he generally did quite well, but as he yelled out into the empty room, rocked the legs of the chairs against the stone floor, loud noised echoing through the dim corners, he got no more attention than he had when he was silent.

John felt the chair wobble precariously after a particularly energetic thrust, felt his stomach drop as the chair began to fall, only just able to bring the seat back under control and save his fingers, knees, bones, from the impact of a fall.

The worthlessness set back in. John didn't fight it this time, just let it wash over him, feeling the ridiculousness of the situation. Of all the emotions that he could be feeling, all of the things that he should be thinking, that was the most shallow, petty and selfish.

But he couldn't clear his mind of the fact that they hadn't come to see him. They, who ever they were, had gone to the trouble of kidnapping him and putting him in this god forsaken room, but they hadn't even come to visit or spoken a single word to him. Given his current clarity of mind, they hadn't even thought that he needed to be drugged again. He was nothing to them. It wasn't him that they wanted.

It was never him that they wanted. It was never him that anyone wanted.

They wanted Sherlock.

Everyone wanted Sherlock.

John would never admit that it made him jealous.

Sherlock was a great man, interesting and powerfully brilliant, and the only thing that John wanted more than to be like him, was to be wanted by him. Being accepted, chosen by the man, even if it were just to live in the same space, to accompany him on cases, to be his friend, it was the highest form of flattery that John could imagine. But being _wanted_ by Sherlock was something else entirely.

John remembered the flash of emotion behind the blue green eyes as Sherlock had kissed him.

_Kissed_ him.

Kissed _him_.

John was still in the silence of the room. The self destructive thoughts faded away into the dark, coiling black and thick in the confining corners. They couldn't help him so there seemed little point in entertaining them.

John wasn't going to play damsel in distress for these people, or for Sherlock any more. It wasn't the role he had been trained to play. He was a soldier, he was going to be a soldier.

He trusted Sherlock with his life, and he trusted him to come after John.

But John refused to just sit and wait for him to come and sweep him off his feet. If these people though he was worthless, he was going to use that to his advantage.

John didn't have a plan, but he had time to make one. Sherlock probably hadn't even noticed he was missing. When John had left the apartment, Sherlock had been off somewhere, not moving at all, eyes wide open and barely blinking. When John had pulled back from the kiss and seen the panic in Sherlock's eyes give way to the blank expression, he had spent a moment or two worrying that he had broken the world's only consulting detective. But his own panic cleared and he recognised the signs of Sherlock's departure into his mind palace.

In the room, the memory make John chuckle. Only Sherlock would need a whole castle to hold his information. Pretentious prick, John thought fondly.

The room stole his voice, echoed it around him in fading circles. John chastised himself. For the purpose of his half formed plan, he needed them to believe in the role that he was playing, he needed them to believe that he was helpless and worthless, and that he was scared out of his mind.

A true fear didn't enter John's mind. He could recognise that perhaps his environment should scare him, it was indeed intended to have just that affect, but the dank walls of torture chambers had stopped scaring him long ago. The light from the skylight window was already fading, or perhaps fading again. For all John knew, he'd been stuck in the room for more than twenty four hours. By the time darkness had truly fallen, and no light seeped through the square above his head, John had escaped the stark, bare walls of reality and sunken into dreams.


	10. Chapter 10

**Sherlock**

"I don't know!"

"Well you were there Sherlock! You have to know something!"

Sherlock paced around the small room. His irritation, his anxiety for his lost friend, only amused Lestrade for a second. It was kind of nice to see some emotion colour the man's cheeks, even if it was worry.

"He had gone out that evening," Sherlock began, but stopped when he saw the confirming look in the police officer's eyes. So John had been with Lestrade, that was interesting. He filed it away for later contemplation and moved on.

"He came back and..." The look on Lestrade's face turned to something that looked like pity, but whether it was for Sherlock or John, Sherlock didn't know.

"...and I was asleep. I woke up and we spoke for five minutes. I..." Sherlock was too embarrassed to say "went to my mind palace", given the nature of the information he had been dealing with, so he lied. "...fell asleep again. When I woke up again, he was gone. I thought that he had just gone out, or something, but he didn't return."

"Do you know where he went?"

"I am not his keeper!"

"No, but you are the person closest to him. Damn it Sherlock, you're his best friend. If you don't know anything, no one will."

Sherlock took a second to confirm just how true that statement was. His chest tightened with remorse as he realised that he had always just assumed that John had a life separate from Sherlock, the cases and the apartment that they shared. It was a illusion though. Sherlock demanded so much of his doctor's time, too much, for him to create stable relationships of almost any nature. Almost every girl that John had meet lately had been connected to a case. At Christmas and birthdays, all holidays really, it boiled down to Lestrade, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, occasionally an uninvited Irene, and Sherlock. And when everyone else was busy, or with their own families, living their own lives, it would just be John and Sherlock. In silence. Sherlock was ashamed that he didn't know more about John. He had shut himself away, tried to ignore his feelings for the man, and he had simultaneously ignored John himself. John deserved more. He deserved a true friend.

Lestrade knocked Sherlock out of his distraction. John had been missing for fifteen hours. If it were anyone else, Lestrade wouldn't be this bothered, but he knew the sort of work that Sherlock did and the type of enemies that he made. He knew this was trouble.

Lestrade hated to ask the question. "Sherlock, do you know anyone who would want to hurt you?" Sherlock didn't bother answering, just made a face at Lestrade until the officer sighed.

"Fine. Do you know anyone who doesn't want to hurt you?"

The same look. He didn't.

"I need a list of the cases you've worked on recently."

"I don't think that that will help. The type of people that I pursue are not rash. Some of them will wait years for an opportunity to get their revenge. This may be a consequence of a recent case, or one of my first, or perhaps not a case at all."

"Regardless, I think that the recent ones are the best place to start, then we can work backwards."

Sherlock nodded. Though the police as a general rule were incompetent morons, the man standing before him could occasionally get it right.

"You will provide me with space to work in?"

"No." A silence followed that refusal. Sherlock's mind raced. He knew why Lestrade was refusing him, but he wouldn't accept it.

"Why not?"

"Sherlock, you're too close to the case an-"

"Too close? I thought you just told me that I wasn't close enough."

Lestrade sighed.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to let you work this."

Lestrade looked up and met the taller man's eyes.

"At least not with us."


	11. Chapter 11

**Sherlock:**

It had been the eggs. That had been what first attracted Sherlock to the case, the one gem nestled amongst the mundane dirt of a cut and dry case. He wasn't sure at first how they had fit in. Even by the end they would have, to all those people who were not the world's only consulting detective, made little sense. But Sherlock had recognised some of their importance. Now he realised that he hadn't seen all of it. It was always that one thing that he missed.

His research lead him halfway through London, through seedy bars, fringe theatres, a strip club, even an illegal chicken fight in someone's basement. Sherlock was at home in the seedy underbelly of the city, he knew it's lines, the trails of dirt that other people liked to think were swept neatly under a rug, like the back of his hand. This was not only where his network operated, it was also his own preferred setting for a confrontation.

The building was a warehouse, it was always a warehouse, in a mostly abandoned section near the river. From the outside, in the cold afternoon, it looked gloomy but non threatening. Sherlock thought of the popular saying, that looks were deceiving, and that one ought not to judge a book by it's cover. While he subscribed to the latter, it was much better to judge a book by the condition of the pages and the number of editions, he questioned the truth of the former. Looks were never deceiving, at least not to Sherlock. Perhaps it was because he didn't see as others saw. He didn't see the not threatening facade of the windowed building. He saw the tire marks leading towards doors that would otherwise appear to be unopened. He was the subtle marks of inhabitation and knew that he had been right. The marks were not new, not the signs of a short sojourn, rather they were the symptoms of a long inhabitance. These people had been planing for a long time before their plan had been put into action.

John had been missing for over three days now, and Sherlock had not yet been able to find him. The people who had taken him had done a good job of covering their own and John's tracks and even Sherlock hadn't been able to find evidence of his movements. He didn't even know if John was in this building. All that he knew for sure was that this was a place where illegal workings were going on, and it was the best lead that he had.

The police were still chasing their tails, though Sherlock had given them the hint about the chicken fighting ring and they had wasted time cleaning that out. Sherlock hadn't bothered to call Lestrade when he had caught the information that had lead him here. The police would only bumble around and he would have to do it all himself anyway. It wasn't that Sherlock disliked police officers, with one major exception, it was just that they occasionally encountered significant difficulties doing their job.

Sherlock remained hidden, slowly moving closer to the building until his back was up against the rusted wrought iron. He quickly formulated a plan, putting it to action as he rounded a corner and spotted a rectangle that could be a door.

It only took Sherlock three minutes to find where they had been keeping John. He had a maximum of two minutes left before al kind of alarms were raised, possibly only a few second,s but as he pushed open the door, they hadn't even kept it locked, Sherlock sighed in relief. The room was empty, but it showed definite signs of having been occupied very recently. The chair and the IV stand were knocked on to the floor and a white viscous substance was slowly oozing into a drain set in the centre of the room.

It had to be John. Sherlock had been keeping track of all the disappearances and missing person reports that came into the police section, Lestrade hadn't done a very good job at restricting the information he was given, and there were very few viable candidates for the room he saw before him. Add to that the escape. If anyone could break free under these conditions, it would be the nerves of steel ex-soldier.

Sherlock stood for only a second longer to ensure that he had absorbed all of the information that it was possible to get from the room.

Down another corridor. Past more doors, locked this time. More corridors, Sherlock stopped counting, stopped checking for minute differences that told the corridors apart. It no longer nattered for many rooms he walked past, how many turns he took in the labyrinth of while and grey. He had to find John. That was all that mattered.

_John, John, John, John, John, John_

His name became a chant in Sherlock's mind, breaking out every time a foot hit the floor.

It almost surprised Sherlock that it was a full six minutes until the alarms went off.


	12. Chapter 12

**Part Seven:**

John clutched his hand tighter to his chest, curling his shoulders forward in an instinctual attempt to shelter the injured extremity. He had landed on the hand when he had tipped the chair over, making sure he pulled to the non dominant side, knowing that the damage was unavoidable. He could tell that it was broken but he didn't have the time to check the severity of the damage. John thanked his scarce luck that it was not a compound fracture. Through he could feel the bones moving in odd ways under the skin, he wasn't leaving a blood trail.

He leaned against the wall as the pain radiating from his hand overcame his concentration. His head span and he felt dizzy, vision going black as he felt bile rise in his throat. He almost sunk to his knees but gained something resembling composure and somehow found the strength to carry on.

He didn't know how long he'd been walking. It could have been minutes, or hours, John wasn't sure any more. He stumbled on, occasionally reaching out with his good hand and touching the wall to correct his path, when the darkness overcame his vision again. The lights in the hallway were bright and John wasn't able to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds without feeling the need to throw up. _Photosensitive_. He distracted himself from the pain by cataloguing the symptoms he was exhibiting, trying to pinpoint the drug that he had been given and any other damage that had been done.

The scientific names came to him with difficulty and eventually blended into one. He had lost track of time and his own thoughts again by the time he noticed the alarms. He didn't immediately recognise the sound. The blaring noise lasted for short bursts before silence returned and John found that it was an effective aid in keeping track of his steps. It wasn't until he passed under what appeared to be a speaker, and the noise was loud enough to truly penetrate his thoughts, that he recognised it for it's purpose.

If he hadn't been so tired, the realisation would have sent a jolt of fear though his entire body, no doubt followed by a shot of adrenaline. He began to wish that he wasn't so exhausted, if only for that hormonal response that would be enough to keep him going until he was free of this maze.

He continued on without it.

John didn't realise that he had stopped moving until he heard noises. He must have stopped a while ago, hours maybe. The noise hadn't stopped yet but now John was leaning back against the wall, legs in front of him, hand cradles carefully in his lap, head thick and thoughts slow. The pressure inside his skull seemed to push against the back of his eyes, driving him past the point of coherency. He had been talking, it seemed, to the white wash of the wall, or perhaps to himself, but now his words had diminished into a series of sounds that made no sense to him. His mouth didn't seem to be connected to his swollen brain and had taken on a mind of it's own, babbling uncontrollably. Just like I would be if Sherlock were here, a babbling idiot, John thought and was surprised that his mouth had actually formed a single word from his thought. Sherlock.

John woke up before he experienced true unconsciousness. Speak of the devil, his mind conjured, but it could have been days since he had spoken Sherlock's name. John almost chuckled as the figure before him fussed over his body, long fingers reaching hesitantly to examine his injured hand. So, Sherlock had come after all. Even if he was just a hallucination. That was okay, or at least John thought it was okay, even if it wasn't the real thing, it was better that sitting alone in the corridor waiting for someone to find him.

Then he noticed the blood on Sherlock's shirt and his brain and body reacted in a way that he had previously been unable to achieve. He pushed away the thin hands, reaching out his own to touch the man's solid torso, mind already accepting the fact that he spectre was quite real. As his injured hand made contact the pain barely registered, but it was enough for John to pull his hand back and continue his examination of his friend with the other.

Sherlock was saying something, repeating it over and over, but John was unable to make sense of his words. The rush of panic at the though of Sherlock injured had activated his protective instinct and he was determined to ensure his friends safety before all else. When the two hands caught his own however, and the words finally penetrated his haze, he felt the urgency flee his body, leaving it slumped once more against the wall, all remaining energy focused to gripping tightly to the hand holding his. How long had it been since they were last in this position? Longer that John could remember.

"It's alright, John. It's not my blood. It's alright."

John listened, eyes falling closed as Sherlock's voice rocked him into a familiar oblivion.

John woke to a series of loud beeps and more bright lights. Even with his eyes closed he could tell that they were too bright to be natural and, feeling the familiar tug of a tube in his arm, drowned himself in the nightmarish surety that he was back in that room. The smell of disinfectant and the subtle smell of human flesh served to compound his fear. While he listened in panic he heard the beeps grown louder and more insistent, catching the sound of fabric, the rustling of clothes and someone nearby moved.

The heart rate monitor stuttered for a moment as Sherlock reached the bed and in a rush he reached forward to place a hand on the man's arm.

"John."

At the sound of his name John's eyes flicked open. His fears dissipated the moment he saw Sherlock and recognised the familiar setting of a hospital room, but it still took time for his heart to slow. A nurse rushed in, and a doctor following her. While they fussed about his prone body, John kept his eyes glued to Sherlock, silently begging him not to leave him with strangers. Not now. Sherlock stayed.

Neither of them spoke a word until the stampede of medial officials had checked over the patient, carefully rearranging the disturbed sheets around him and setting everything into a pristine order.

After they had left the room was still attended by silence. John wasn't quite sure what to say first, or if he was still capable to speech, remembering with a frightening clarity the garbled noised that had fled from his lips the last time he had attempted to communicate. Sherlock did not speak either, though from his facial expression John could tell that his mind was working at it's full capacity.

They continued to stare at each other, silence slowly growing awkward as John felt his anxiety rise. For the first time in what felt like weeks, John felt his mind returning to the kiss. Had that really happened, or had that been some dream that he cooked up while tied to a chair being fed through a tube? John couldn't tell.

It was no surprise to him when Sherlock spoke first. John was still afraid of what would come out if he tried to speak, but for a while he thought that Sherlock would remain silently stoic in the chair on the other side of the room. He was glad he was wrong.

"John." Sherlock repeated. It was not a question, nor was it truly a statement, and Sherlock's voice was uncharacteristically coloured with emotion. It was as if Sherlock was trying to reassure himself, though the use of his partner's name, that everything was alright at last.

John found the strength to try his own voice in the emotion of his friend's.

"Sherlock."

His voice was hoarser that usual, but John was pleased to find that the word was recognisable. The silence returned but John no longer felt the tension hidden in it.

"John, I'm so sorry." John could see the truth of the statement in the guilt and remorse on the man's face, but was pained to see the sadness there as well.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Of course it was. It's always my fault."

John chuckled as the intense sincerity of the question. Sherlock looked at him as if considering calling in the doctor again.

"Far be it for me to disagree, but in this case-"

"You don't understand John. This _was_ all my fault. They wanted me and they used you to get me. All because of those stupid eggs."

John almost laughed at the non-sequitur, but he caught sight of the raw emotion on Sherlock's face and was scared that his amusement would chase it away.

"I'm going to have to ask you to explain that one later, but for now..Sherlock, I don't blame you for what happened. I knew all along that it was you they wanted."

"You were forced to play bait John. Again. I didn't want you to have to do that. They see you as my weakness."

That comment wiped away any lingering amusement that John had been harbouring. He _was_ Sherlock's weakness, surely the man would recognise it now. There was no room in Sherlock's career for a liability. No room in his life.

He turned his face away, trying to hide his disappointment and apprehension that were displayed there. When he turned back Sherlock had moved closer to the bed. He eyed the man warily.

"You're right. They used me to get to you and now that they know it works, they're just going to do it again and again. They all are. I'm sorry, but I'm not smart enough or strong enough to stop them from-"

The man was standing before John had a chance to finish his sentence. He looked angrily away from John, directing his stare out the window and masses of unknown assailants waiting there for their chance to hurt John.

"Don't you dare blame yourself for what happened John. It was their fault. And mine. I should have protected you."

John was shocked. Surely Sherlock knew what he had done for John. Not just in the warehouse, but every day since the day they had met. John had been so lost, cast out by a world that could no longer use him, thrown into a life of empty rooms and nameless faces, until he had met the world's only consulting detective. He had an idea of where he would be without the man, and that was a very different section of the hospital.

John thought he might be strong enough now to say goodbye to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you shouldn't have to protect me. If I'm not good enough, strong enough, then I'm useless to you. I am your weakness. Everyone can see that."

Sherlock face registered a sense of rejection, chased away by the return of his stoicism. John could tell that he had hurt the man, but he wasn't quite sure why. When Sherlock didn't speak John continued.

"It's okay. I mean, you don't have to say it. I understand that your work is the most important thing, and I don't want to jeopardise-"

Sherlock's sudden activity cut John's sentence short. He was glad that it had. He was still far to exhausted to be using words like jeopardise.

John's tired eyes loosely followed Sherlock's movements until the man was sitting on the bed, tentatively resting his weight on the white sheets, as if he were afraid to jostle John's lower body. After he relaxed slightly into the soft mattress, John could feel the press of the man's back against his legs, a solid feeling that centred John more than anything else had managed to do. He subtly shifted his leg until it was flush against Sherlock's back, feeling the comfort flowing though him from the warm contact. Sherlock looked carefully across at him and John thought for a moment that he could see hesitancy in the man's shoulders.

Sherlock opened his mouth and almost began to speak, but quickly shut it, making an abortive movement with his hand towards John.

John didn't speak, torn between a fear of the coming pain and a curiosity as to what had turned Sherlock into a nervous teenager.

Sherlock seemed to rethink his retraction as, glancing shyly away from John's gaze, he reached out and softly wrapped his slender fingers around John's injured hand. For the first time John noticed the cast encasing broken bones, feeling, quite suddenly, the weight of the heavy plaster aiding gravity in pressing his hand towards the other that now rested partially under it. He brought his other hand over to grip Sherlock's tightly. Sherlock guided his gaze towards their clasped hands and John remembered his own eyes doing the same, not all that long ago . This time he kept his gaze focused solidly on the man in front of him.

Sherlock spoke slowly into the quiet.

"If I ever made you feel that way, I apologise. Once I believed it, all of it, to be true. But," Sherlock's speech faltered, he was not used to expressing sentiment. He continued, "it has been so long since I actually felt that way. My job is important, beyond a doubt, but you have been slowly teaching me that it is the other things that can make someone great. Can make them happy." Sherlock paused, hoping that John was receiving his message and would banish all doubts about Sherlock from his mind. He wasn't leaving, and he wasn't giving John up.

For the sake of irrevocable clarity Sherlock looked up into John's eyes and spoke again.

"You make me happy, John, and you make me great. You are my humanity, my compassion and my capacity for love. It has always been you. I will always love you."

John sat, shocked into stillness by the emotive display. His heart swelled with hope, with a fierce possessiveness that pushed his towards elation. Suddenly the unclear visions of an uncertain future were deemed unnecessary and John doubted he had even been so relieved in his whole life.

His heart rate must have begun to rise again, in joy rather than panic, because doctors entered the room again to witness their patient and his visitor, the one they had been warned not to try to remove on pain of death, grasping desperately at each other's hands. Sherlock began to pull away as the doctors moved around the bed, looking first down at their entwined fingers and then apprehensively at John. John caught his looks with all the strength and certainty he could muster, holding Sherlock fast to him. Sherlock didn't struggle, instead placed a possessive hand, the one not holding John's, on the blanket above the man's leg, refusing to be moved as the doctors fussed about him again.

John didn't care who saw. In fact, the more the better. He wanted everyone to know that the world's only consulting detective had chosen him. In a voice still hoarse from lack of use, still shaking from the fear of rejection and the prospect of loneliness, and strengthened by the pride and happiness that had swollen his chest, John spoke so that the whole room could hear him.

"I love you too."


End file.
